Scions of Nexus

by Gregory Mattix

  They didn’t get far, running right into the dwarves, who’d spurred their mounts forward. The dwarven maid brought her rune-inscribed hammer down and split the skull of the goblin leader, making yellowish goop spurt out its ears. The second goblin hacked at her from the opposite side with its rusty axe, but one of her dwarven companions cleaved its skinny arm off at the shoulder with a quick swipe of his own axe before its blow could land.

  Then the trio of dwarves spurred their mounts forward into the mass of wounded and fallen goblins. The goats butted with their horns and trampled them beneath their hooves while the warriors lay about with hammer and axes. In a moment, it was finished. Green goblin blood and yellow brains painted the ground around them.

  Mira watched the whole fight curiously, impressed at the dwarves’ methodical efficiency in mopping up.

  The silver-armored dwarven maid turned her attention to them and raised her hammer in a salute. “Ho, travelers! Well met and well fought. I am Sioned Hammerhelm of the Silver Anvil Hall.”

  “Well met, Lady Hammerhelm,” Brother Cerador said with a polite bow. He introduced the two of them.

  Sioned’s goat brayed, and she patted it on the neck before hopping down to the ground. She walked over and clasped hands companionably with Cerador and then Mira. The crown of Sioned’s helm came up only to Mira’s chest, who stood five and a half feet tall, but the dwarf’s powerful grip nearly crushed her hand with unexpected strength. She had a round face and dimples when she smiled. Mira had never seen a dwarf before and was surprised to realize the maid was as beautiful as she was formidable.

  “Have ye seen any more o’ these scum? We tracked ’em from their lair in some caves about a mile east of here. They were preying on merchant caravans on the road.”

  “No,” Cerador replied. “These are the first goblins we’ve encountered, and we’re two days on the road now from the White Monastery.”

  “Monks, eh? Good to hear no more o’ the scum made it up the trail, then.” Sioned scowled at the corpses around her.

  Another dwarf, this one on foot, ran up the path, puffing and red-faced. He paused a moment to catch his breath. “Me Queen! That be all of ’em. We rounded up the rest.”

  “Aye. Good work, men.” Sioned turned back to the monks and grinned. “’Twas well met and a pleasure squashin’ goblins with ye! If ye’re passing by Silver Anvil Hall, ye’re welcome at our hearth. Ye’ll have friends there and ale a’plenty!”

  Mira instantly liked the fiery dwarf. She returned Sioned’s grin, and Cerador even cracked a smile as well.

  “Many thanks for the offer, Lady Sioned, but our travels take us far to the south, I’m afraid,” he said.

  Sioned nodded. “Farewell then, me friends! May Reiktir watch over ye.” She swung back into the goat’s saddle and turned the beast. The other dwarves nodded at them, then they all disappeared back down the canyon in a clatter of hooves, the lone dwarf afoot having to run puffing after them.

  “This is quickly turning out to be an interesting journey,” Mira said.

  “Indeed. Most unexpected, especially this far north.”

  They followed the path down onto a broad, grassy plain where the dwarves had routed the goblins. The dwarves were formed up and marching back eastward, with a handful mounted on their goats and a few others on ponies while a couple score marched on foot, a precision column of gleaming steel. Their baritone voices were bellowing out some dwarven victory song.

  Squashed remains of goblins littered the plain. Mira could see from the trail of corpses that the goblins must have fled some caves up in the hills only to be fallen upon by the larger group of dwarves lying in wait. The crows and vultures wasted no time swooping down and taking part in the gory feast laid out before them.

  Mira and Cerador continued southwest toward Vallonde and the port city of Finhalla, where stood a magical portal that would shorten their journey considerably.

  Chapter 8

  Nesnys flew over the darkened countryside of Nebara, the night air cool on her skin. The glow from a country cottage’s windows in the distance drew her attention. Her bloodlust not fully satiated following her battle with the barbarian, she banked and glided toward the house. Her Abyssal iron wings sheared through the air as would the keenest blade.

  She landed gracefully in the yard before the small cottage. The scent of freshly tilled earth and cooking meat and onions mingled in the air.

  A pair of dogs raced around the corner of the cottage, barking furiously. Their hackles were raised, and they maintained their distance, yet their incessant yapping irritated Nesnys.

  “Silence!” The command in the fell speech struck the animals like a palpable force. With strangled yelps, they turned and fled, tails tucked between their legs. She turned her attention back to the house.

  The door opened, and a man stepped outside, a short bow in hand with a nocked arrow.

  “What are you two going on about?” the farmer asked, squinting into the darkness in search of his dogs.

  “Not the most cordial greeting for a weary traveler,” Nesnys replied. She tucked her wings against her back and sauntered toward the man, making sure to let her hips sway enticingly. Knowing nothing could pose any threat to her here, she had allowed her armor to recede to a minimum, revealing what was a scandalous amount of skin to these simple people.

  The man spotted her, and his jaw sagged open. “Uh, pardon, miss. Can’t be too careful, times being what they are of late. Are you in need of aid?”

  Nesnys fixated her gaze on the farmer and stepped closer. “You have what I seek.”

  The farmer let the short bow fall to his side, the arrow dropping to the ground unnoticed. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from traveling over her body, staring spellbound as she approached, standing nearly a head taller than him.

  “What… uh, what is it you s-seek?”

  Nesnys placed her hand upon his chest, talons digging lightly into his skin through his rough tunic, and in that instant, he seemed to realize something was amiss. He blinked in surprise, jaw working soundlessly, and he futilely raised his bow. She hooked his neck with her claws and yanked him up against herself. With a quick slash, she tore his throat out. The man gurgled as his blood pumped from his neck. She lowered her mouth and drank greedily, savoring the salty taste of fresh mortal blood.

  An unintelligible voice called out from inside the farmhouse, rousing Nesnys from her bliss. She let the man’s corpse drop, smearing the spatters of blood across her breasts and stomach.

  The door opened, and a woman stuck her head through the gap. “Darling, are you coming in for dinner?” Her eyes widened, traveling between Nesnys and the crumpled form of her slain husband.

  “I thought you’d never ask,” Nesnys purred with a broad smile.

  ***

  So this is what those two fools have given me to work with.

  Nesnys swaggered up to the men she had summoned, eyeing them head to toe. She was grudgingly impressed despite herself when the two held up to her scrutiny, barely flinching once they had gotten over the initial shock at her appearance. She’d arrived in Orialan an hour earlier, just before dawn, following her layover at the farmhouse. She’d neglected to shapeshift back to her human form, and blood still spattered her face and armor, which was restored to its battle appearance. She cared not for what the men might think of her true nature, for she expected them to get accustomed to the sight of her.

  Inquisitor Tellast, a short man whose head didn’t even reach Nesnys’s shoulder, stood at attention, his back straight as an arrow. He was garbed in the black and gold of the empire although he wore a curious greatcoat with a stiff-necked collar that must have been sweltering in the early heat. His uniform was starched and his boots shined to a polish. The little man paled at her inspection but remained poised, his cruel eyes gleaming with intelligence. He bowed respectfully.

  Colonel Cornix, the Butcher of Almanes, was Tellast’s opposite in nearly every regard. He was the rabid dog she had
expected. The man was tall and large framed although gaunt from his time spent in the dungeons. His dark hair and beard were wild and untrimmed, and he was covered in scars, one ear a ragged stump, his nose crooked and oft broken. His dark eyes glowered with insolence and perhaps a bit of lust as he boldly looked her over. Despite his ragged appearance, he wore a fine mail shirt and had a large well-crafted axe strapped to his back, along with a sword on his hip. He met her piercing stare with a slight smirk on his face. After holding her gaze an impudently long time, he finally bowed slightly.

  These two hounds should do—one cunning, the other vicious—provided I keep the leash tight enough, lest they get out of control.

  “I am Warlord Nesnys. You may address me as simply Warlord from now on. The wizard and priest should have briefed you already, but I will give you your orders. The bottleneck at Helmsfield Keep has been eliminated just yesterday. As a result, my army is even now spreading out into southern Ketania. We will sow chaos and bloodshed all the way to the northern mountains and bring glory to the emperor and Nebara.” She paused to note their reactions.

  Tellast smiled and nodded eagerly. Cornix could have been a starving hound eyeing a bloody haunch of meat.

  As I expected. “Your particular skills are needed in this campaign, hence the reason you both stand here before me, your respective units poised for missions of critical importance. Colonel, you and your Hundred Scorpions shall be the point of my spear to crush the army of the Ketanian king once he gets off his soft arse and marches to meet us. Your numbers are insufficient for my requirements, so you will recruit and swell your manning tenfold over the next months. Begin selection and training immediately. You have the entire army to recruit from, so choose well. Is this something you can manage?”

  The Butcher of Almanes nodded eagerly. “Aye, my men will be eagerly awaiting your command, Warlord.” His voice was a rough growl.

  She nodded curtly and turned her attention to Tellast. “And you, Inquisitor, will be responsible for bringing to me—alive and unharmed—a young magic user of strategic value: a girl or boy of human appearance and roughly twenty summers of age, who may or may not have come into control of his or her talents. Nonetheless, this young mage will hold significant power and is not to be underestimated. In the process of your… inquiries in finding this young mage, you are to put to the noose or the sword all other magic users you come across. Those orders are the same for all units of the Nebaran army, but you shall operate independently behind enemy lines and flush this young mage out like a rabbit. Are you capable of this task?”

  Tellast looked every bit as eager as Cornix, as if he might salivate at the prospect. “Yes, Warlord. My men are well suited for such an endeavor and shall not disappoint.”

  “Very well, gentlemen.” The term didn’t quite apply, especially to the butcher, but she was in a good mood and feeling gracious. “Fear is our ally, so stoke it well in the Ketanian citizenry. A kingdom gripped by terror and confusion is a kingdom ready to be torn open like a fresh carcass.” She smirked at Cornix at the last statement. “Be about your business, and you will be contacted as needed. You, Inquisitor, shall work in concert with units of scouts already deployed to the western portion of Ketania. Begin your search there, and work your way east, for the army will push north to Ammon Nor and press into the heartland of Ketania. If our quarry is anywhere in the south, he or she shall be flushed out. Gather your men, and meet back here at high sun. I shall teleport you into Ketania to begin your hunt. Any questions?”

  “No, Warlord,” they both replied with a bow.

  “Very well. Do not fail me in this, or you’ll both regret it. Dismissed.”

  When the two had departed, Nesnys returned to her chambers for a few hours’ rest and to make additional preparations.

  Thus far, all is going according to plan. I shall have to summon my lieutenants soon, for I cannot be everywhere at once.

  Chapter 9

  Daybreak was brightening to morning, the rays of pink and orange painted against the clouds fading as the sky deepened to blue. A thinning mist yet hung over a small lake, turning its normally sapphire waters gray and making it seem unnaturally still, intimate even. Thickly forested hills rose around the lake in gently undulating green waves.

  All in all, the morning was beautiful, certainly too fine a day for Dakarai Creel to be conducting his veritably grim business.

  “I’ll find you one of these days, you gods-damned bloody whoreson,” snarled the undying man before him. His fine black robes had become sodden and muddied from soaking up the water leaking into the bottom of the skiff. His features looked bestial, eyes narrowed to slits and perfect teeth gleaming in a rictus snarl. “I’ll carve up your women and young. Anyone who you care for and cares for you in turn shall find naught but—mmph!”

  Odd how alike we are, yet so different. Creel fervently hoped he never ended up becoming such a twisted, sadistic bastard. The gods certainly are cryptic in their machinations.

  He looked down at the man, Thalko Cannog, whose mouth he’d stuffed with a soggy, dirty rag. “Don’t ruin such a lovely morning, Thalko. You’d have to escape your fate in order to come after me, which is quite a hopeful thought on your part. Are you so confident your dark mistress shall deign to forgive you after your failures?” A cold smile spread across Creel’s face, more for Thalko’s sake than from any amusement to be found in the circumstances.

  He ignored Thalko’s mumbles and murderous glare, instead nodding in approval at the brief look of horror that filled the man’s eyes at the reminder of Veharis’s cruel mercies awaiting him. The goddess of pain and torment was a mistress Creel suspected had neither patience nor forgiveness for her minions’ failures.

  Looking around, Creel judged that they were in the center of the lake. He let the oars rest in the stern of the small craft. The skiff rocked from Thalko’s struggles against the chains binding him, sending small waves rolling across the lake’s placid surface.

  “’Tis a damned shame to foul the waters of this pristine lake with scum such as yourself.” Creel rose to his feet, maintaining his balance as the skiff rocked from side to side. Water in the bottom sloshed around his feet, but he ignored it. He cleared his throat and spoke the words his employer bade him speak.

  “Thalko Cannog, I hereby condemn you to be drowned until dead in the depths of this lake for your crimes against House Nakire. For betraying the trust of House Nakire; usurping the widow Nakire’s lands following the untimely death of Lord Endarril; repeated attempts to assassinate the widow; and abusing, torturing, and murdering the widow’s daughter, members of the keep’s staff, and vassals of the Nakire lands. And for being an insufferable arsehole. That last part I added.” He drove the toe of his boot into Thalko’s ribs none too gently, eliciting a grunt of pain. “Each day, you shall awaken anew and have moments to ruminate over your plight before the water fills your lungs and you drown until dead once more… to be continued ad infinitum. May the gods curse your black soul.”

  Thalko struggled again, but he was bound tightly in thick iron chains with a heavy flagstone secured to his chest. He could do little more than set the boat rocking with his motions.

  Creel leaned forward, careful to keep his feet braced against each side of the hull, gripped the chains, and heaved, lifting Thalko until their faces were separated by a couple handbreadths. The bound man snarled and struggled with renewed vigor, his hateful glare replaced by a look of stark terror.

  With a grunt, Creel shoved Thalko over the gunwale and immediately dropped to a crouch and leaned to the opposite side to balance the boat. The skiff rocked alarmingly as Thalko went over the side, hitting the water with a loud splash and immediately sinking into the depths.

  Creel regained his seat and waited until the water stilled. The bubbles rising from the bottom ended after a minute or two. He grimaced, noting the leaky boat was filled with a handbreadth of water, but judged he could just make it back to shore before it reached the verge of sinking.
The deed done, he took up the oars and stroked smoothly, turning the small craft and propelling it back to shore.

  The sun crested the hills and sent a blinding glare off the surface of the water. Creel squinted but maintained his steady pace. Several minutes later, the waterlogged skiff, wallowing low in the water, ground its keel on the sandy beach.

  Creel leaped into the water and flipped the boat over to drain it. Then he dragged the skiff ashore and beached it. His feet squelched in his old boots, which were beginning to come apart at the seams, so he pulled them off and sat on the beach, content to enjoy the lovely morning while his footgear dried out. He was in no hurry, for he had nowhere in particular to be. Much like Thalko prior to his downfall, Creel had nothing but time on his hands.

  Now that this ugly business is out of the way, I’ll be moving on… wherever the winds or the gods lead me. First, I’ll inform Lady Nakire the deed is done. Hopefully, she and her people can find some amount of peace and dignity that’s been denied them these long years.

  Somewhere in the depths of the lake, the villain Thalko had drowned, the corpse awaiting the dawn of the next day when his curse would bring him back from the dead once more—for a brief moment, at least—until he could hold his breath no longer and the dark waters rushed back in to fill his lungs anew.

  ***

  Creel rode west across the riverlands and away from Nakire Keep, heading toward central Ketania. Nearly a month had passed since the distasteful task of disposing of Thalko, and he was restless to get back on the road once more.

  Delfina Nakire had been pleased with his service and offered him some small amount of jewels as payment, but she was practically impoverished, and he’d failed to save the life of her daughter, so he declined her offer. Eating from the castle larder and drinking the fine wine the region was renowned for had been enough of a reward for him—that and seeing the region liberated from the tyrant who had usurped and terrorized the lands.